


Justice Served

by QQSuited



Series: The Paradox Collection [4]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon Divergent, F/F, Hope this makes you smile a little after November 8th, Knee-capping!, Post Samaritan, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 05 Finale, Shootout!, There's also an Original character who may resemble a big orange hate-filled douchebag, To make me feel better, guns!, shoot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 16:56:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8808667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QQSuited/pseuds/QQSuited
Summary: A new number brings Root and Shaw to the doorstep of a reality show star who believes he is above the law. Saving a young woman is their job. Humiliating the "star" will be for fun. Plus, the pair takes a trip to visit, and surprise, an old friend.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is me dealing with November’s scary surprise. There is no political statement other than a writer fantasizing and telling a story. My apologies if this offends anyone…
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Kinda…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 _ **Shaw’s Loft, Alphabet City, Manhattan**_  
  
  
Sameen Shaw strolled across the hardwood floor from the kitchen to the elaborate computer set-up Root insisted be installed in her loft for those times when they didn’t want to travel to their Subway headquarters holding a massive hoagie sandwich in her hands.  Bear trotted at her heels, alert for any fixings to fall from the hoagie roll to the floor, snuffling when he thought he had found a morsel for himself.  
  
“Have you eaten?” she asked the taller woman, kicking back the extra desk chair and taking a seat. Absently, she scratched Bear’s ears and pulled a chunk of roast beef off the sandwich for him to enjoy.  
  
Root gave a tiny smile, her eyes never leaving the computer screen before her. “I ate the leftover pasta while you were out on your run. I think it was better today than last night.”  
  
“Good. Anything new?”  
  
Clicking through screens, Root browsed articles and police reports before glancing at the woman seated next to her. “Does the name Amanda Wallenbeck mean anything to you?”  
  
“Sounds familiar. Why?”  
  
“Apparently, she’s our new number.”  
  
“ _Amanda Wallenbeck_ ,” Baby Machine relayed. “ _Twenty-five years old, graduate of Columbia University School of Business. In November of 2014, she took a position with Steinkamp Enterprises in the marketing department. In October of 2015, she walked into the 10th Precinct to report a sexual assault_.”  
  
Shaw hummed in recognition. “I remember now. She claims she was raped by William Steinkamp, the reality show guy.”  
  
“ _And president and CEO of Steinkamp Enterprises._ ”  
  
Shaw snorted. “And professional douchebag blowhard. Doesn’t he have a long list of sexual assault lawsuits filed against him? He’s been sued so many times by female employees, it’s surprising he still has a business.”  
  
Root frowned. “He appears to have a remarkable track record of these lawsuits being dismissed, usually by those accusers. According to these records, the money he’s dished out to some questionable men has helped that happen.”  
  
Shaw sat forward. “Witness intimidation?”  
  
“It certainly looks that way.” Root typed several commands on the keyboard then waited as a variety of windows opened on the screen. “Looks like Amanda isn’t one to back down. She’s telling anyone and everyone what happened to her, including the press. Steinkamp doesn’t appear to like that very much.”  
  
“Well, he’s an orange-skinned bully with serious narcissistic tendencies. And he’s used to getting his way.”  
  
“More than that. He’s used to getting his way and forcing the women he’s intimidated to basically thank him for the humiliation.” There was tangible anger radiating off Root as she read page after page of Steinkamp’s actions, memories of Hanna and Trent Russell creeping into her thoughts. “I really hate loud mouthed bullies. And I hate sexual predators even more.”  
  
“I guess it’s up to us to stop him, huh.”  
  
Baby Machine opened a new window. Mugshots of three unsavory looking men, one with a particularly nasty scar running through one eyebrow and down his cheek, popped up on the monitor. “ _Mason Butler, Charles Turner and Scarface there, Ryan Wilson. In the last 24 hours, these winning male specimens have each received an electronic transfer into their personal accounts in the amount of $10000.00. The funds have been routed through four businesses, either wholly owned subsidiaries of, or with known ties to, Steinkamp Enterprises_.”  
  
“So, 30 grand is what threatening and humiliating a woman costs wealthy white men these days.”  
  
“ _As Steinkamp has never faced any consequences of his actions_ ,” Baby Machine stated, “ _he does not show remorse or believe he has done anything wrong. Despite the fact that everyone knows exactly who and what he is, he continues to get away with all his misogynistic, reprehensible activities.”_  
  
“This is who we think he hired to threaten Wallenbeck?” The Machine hummed in response. Shaw gave a little smile. “This will be fun.”  
  
  
_**Midtown Manhattan, Steinkamp Suites, Baron Ballroom**_  
  
  
Root and Shaw entered the ballroom where William Steinkamp was holding a press conference to discuss his latest real estate venture along with a host of local and national reporters. Clipping a press pass to the collar of her leather jacket, Root quickly scanned the room.  
  
“Check the wings,” she murmured to Shaw. “Scarface and at least one buddy. Looks like they’re chatting with Steinkamp’s Publicist.”  
  
Shaw followed Root’s gaze and saw the men Baby Machine had shown them pictures of. They were talking to a man in a suit and horn-rimmed glasses and just beyond them both women could see William Steinkamp himself. He was wearing a $3000.00 Italian suit and Hermes tie, looking smug, self-satisfied and bright orange from a badly applied spray tan. He spoke one quick sentence then clapped Scarface on the shoulder, the skin around his squinty eyes showing bright white in the darkness of the backstage area.  
  
“Did you get any of that?” Shaw murmured as she touched her earwig.  
  
“ _No microphones or cameras back there_ ,” Baby Machine replied. “ _However, heat signatures indicate the two men are leaving the ballroom.”_  
  
“Take care of her while Steinkamp is giving a press conference,” Root said. “I guess that’s one way to set the alibi.”  
  
“Can you track them once they leave the hotel?” Shaw asked.  
  
“ _Already on it.”_  
  
Shaw was antsy, Root could tell it in the coiled tension of the smaller woman’s shoulders and the dark scowl on her face. Anger radiated from her posture and her hand repeatedly twitched, as if ready to yank her USP from the small of her back at a moment’s notice. Root thought it best if they waited a few more moments then followed in the wake of the men Steinkamp hired.  
  
“Let’s get out of here,” Shaw growled darkly, not willing to wait any longer. “I can’t take being in the same room with this wrinkled old circus peanut.”  
  
With that, she turned and strode out of the ballroom, Root quickly following on her heels. Once outside, Shaw ripped the press pass from her jacket and threw it on the ground, striding quickly toward the black Cadillac Escalade parked at the corner. Root watches her with admiration, her eyes betraying her by sliding down Shaw’s taut, strong form before moving back up and lingering.  
  
“And stop staring at my ass.”  
  
With a grin, Root hurried to the SUV and slid into the passenger seat. “Sorry,” she grinned, not sounding sorry at all. “But the distractions these days…”  
  
With a smirk, Shaw started the car and pulled out onto the street. Following Her directions, the two women quickly found themselves on the tail of a silver sedan. She assured them the three men Steinkamp hired to attack Amanda Wallenbeck were in the vehicle as it traveled across 39st Street before turning up 10th Avenue towards Hell’s Kitchen.  
  
“ _Amanda Wollenbeck lives in Hell’s Kitchen_ ,” She informed them. “ _I would imagine they intend to confront her in her apartment. For a single woman living in Manhattan, being assaulted in your own home would be devastating. There would be no place she’d feel safe_.”  
  
“Got an address?” Shaw grunted.  
  
“ _West 54th Apartments, 505 West 54th, apartment 310_.”  
  
“Can we get there before the goon squad?”  
  
“ _Take a left at the next light. I’ll reroute them for a few minutes, it should give you time.”_  
  
“Thanks, Sis.”  
  
“ _That’s what you pay me for.”_  
  
While the Machine managed to access the traffic lights and stop the silver sedan at a red light, Shaw skirted around, using whatever parking lots and alleys she could find to avoid the traffic lights that were currently being compromised by Her to give the two women an advantage.  
  
Following Her directions, Shaw had managed to give them a leeway of several minutes.  
  
  
_**Hell’s Kitchen, 54th and 10th**_  
  
  
“ _Fifty-fourth is a one-way street. You’ll have to use 11th Avenue to access it. There’s a private parking lot half a block away.  You’ll have access once you pull up to the gate.”_  
  
Shaw followed Her directions while Root reached into the back seat and pulled a large duffle bag onto her lap. While prepping her own armory, she checked and loaded a Glock 19 before handing it to Shaw. Shoving her favorite M &P and USP Compact into the waistband of her black jeans, she reached for a Mossberg 500 shotgun and quickly loaded 5 shells into the weapon.  
  
“Time?” Root asked as they moved stealthily through one building to the greenspace behind Amanda Wollenbeck’s apartment building.  
  
“ _They managed to beat a light_ ,” She relayed to them. “ _Ran right through a red because... Keeping a low profile..._ ” Sarcasm was thick in Baby Machine’s tone. “ _You have five minutes to get to Amanda’s apartment_.”  
  
Entering through a service door at the back of the apartment building, the two women accessed the stairwell and hurried up to the 3rd floor.  
  
“Down here,” Shaw whispered, leading Root down the hallway to apartment 310.  
  
“ _They’re coming off the elevator now_ ,” Baby Machine informed them.  
  
Root reached behind her back, quickly pulling her pistols and raising her arms to fire before stepping around the corner.  
  
“Okay, that’s still kinda hot,” Shaw muttered as she followed. “Hey!” she yelled, getting the attention of Steinkamp’s goons. Before they could raise their weapons, both she and Root fired several times.  
  
“Augh!” one man shouted as he fell, one shattered knee no longer supporting his weight as Root’s bullet found its target. “You fucking bitch!”  
  
Gunfire erupted in the corridor as the assailants finally gathered themselves and returned fire, diving around the corners of the hallway for cover. Ejected shells pinged off the walls and the acrid smell of gunpowder floated in the air. Before Shaw could pull the trigger, Scarface aimed at Root and fired.  
  
Root grunted as fire raced down her arm from the impact of a bullet to her shoulder, slamming her back against the wall. “Dammit!” she exclaimed as her USP slipped from her suddenly tingling, numb fingers.  
  
“Root!” Shaw bellowed.  
  
“I’m okay,” the taller woman replied, feeling warm blood slowly running down her arm even as she fired off three quick shots in the man’s direction with her other hand. “Go!”  
  
“ _One o’clock_ ,” Baby Machine stated in Shaw’s ear. _"Through the corner of the wall, four feet high_.” Shaw did as instructed and pulled the trigger. She heard a grunt and the sound of a body crumpling to the floor. “ _Nice shootin’, Tex_.” There was a whir in their earwigs. “ _I’ve already alerted Detective Fusco. He will arrive with back up in 7 minutes.”_  
  
Behind them, an apartment door opened and a slender blonde woman peered out through the crack. Shaw grabbed Root by the collar and shoved her back and through the door, sending the blonde stumbling back into the relative safety of her apartment. Firing blindly behind her, Shaw quickly followed, kicking Root's dropped USP into the apartment and reaching to slam the door shut. She had half turned to look back down the hallway when she heard the unmistakable crack of a pistol shot moments before the sensation of being hit in the side with a white-hot sledgehammer staggered her.  
  
Slamming into the door frame from the impact before stumbling into the apartment, Shaw felt her legs turn to jello and she dropped to her knees. The warmth of what was obviously blood soaked her side and the burn of a bullet wound stole her breath momentarily before she realized they were inside Amanda Wollenbeck’s apartment.  
  
“Get back,” she growled at the scared woman as she clambered back to her feet. “The bedroom. Get in there and don’t come out unless one of us comes to get you. Got it?”  
  
The young woman stared at her with wide, frightened eyes as she took in the bloody wounds, the sharp smell of gunpowder and the terrifyingly dangerous expressions on the women’s faces. With a shaky nod, she stumbled quickly down the hallway to what must have been the bedroom. A door slammed shut before Shaw turned to check on Root.  
  
“How are you?” she asked, moving to Root’s side to check her shoulder.  
  
“I’m fine,” the taller woman replied. “You hit me better at Hanford.” She saw Shaw wince, favoring her side, and reached out to pull open her jacket. “Sameen,” she murmured, alarmed at the amount of blood soaking through the Persian’s shirt and the bloody, ragged hole just above her left hip. “Are you-.”  
  
Before she could finish her thought, Shaw took one step, stumbled and collapsed against Root. Catching her as she fell, the taller woman gently lowered her onto an ottoman, dropped her M &P and reached for the Mossberg.  
  
“Root…”  
  
“No one hurts my girl but me,” she growled before yanking the apartment door open and stepping back out into the hallway.  
  
Firing one shot at the corner of the corridor, Root watched in satisfaction as buckshot peppered the wall and the gratifying sound of a pain-filled grunt carried to her ears. She pumped the action on the shotgun to eject the spent shell and pulled the trigger again as she strode down the hallway. More buckshot, another groan, the thump of a gun hitting the floor, the sound of a body crumpling to the carpet and Root grinned. Walking around the corner, she stood over Scarface as he cradled his shredded arm to his chest, the skin torn and bloodied from several grains of buckshot and pieces of sheet rock from the wall.  
  
The man had absorbed several rounds from the shotgun in his arm and torso in addition to a 9mm bullet in his knee and was bleeding rather profusely even as She whispered in Root’s ear that he had suffered no fatal injuries and would survive after a quick trip to Bellevue. Root leveraged the pump action on the shotgun and silently pointed the muzzle at the man’s head.  
  
“Who the fuck are you…” he groaned as he rocked back and forth in pain on the hallway floor.  
  
Root smirked at him. “Concerned third party,” she stated, borrowing Reece’s favorite line. “Your boss has an ugly habit of mistreating women. You should probably stay away from him or some of that might rub off on you. You wouldn’t want us to visit you again should you not learn your lesson, would you?”  
  
Scarface groaned. “N- no.”  
  
“Good. Nighty-night.”  
  
“Wha-?”  
  
Before he could finish, Root smashed the butt of the Mossberg into his head, knocking him unconscious. Satisfied with her work, she turned and practically strolled back to Wollenbeck’s apartment, quietly closing the door behind her as she heard the elevator down the hall ding its arrival. Even from inside the apartment they could hear the NYPD’s finest, most distinctly one Detective Lionel Fusco, shouting orders in the hallway.  
  
“Root?” Shaw muttered painfully as she watched the tall woman approach her.  
  
“Hey, Sweetie,” Root replied, tucking her and Shaw’s guns away and reaching for the other woman. “Ready to get out of here?”  
  
Shaw heaved out a pain-filled breath as Root helped her to her feet. She threw an arm over the taller woman’s shoulder and leaned heavily against her. “More than,” she muttered.  
  
Wrapping an arm around the Persian’s waist and grabbing the wrist hanging over her shoulder, Root led her down the back hallway to Amanda’s bedroom. “It’s okay,” she called to the frightened woman hiding in her bedroom closet. “I promise.”  
  
The closet door opened and the young woman stepped out, her face still clouded with fear. “Who are you?”  
  
“It doesn’t matter who we are,” Shaw replied. “We’re just making sure you’re never bothered by William Steinkamp ever again.”  
  
Amanda crossed her arms over her chest in a protective gesture. “Those men. They were here to hurt me, weren’t they?”  
  
Root nodded. “It seems you got under Steinkamp’s skin when you wouldn’t withdraw the charges with the District Attorney and weren’t intimidated by him. He got scared and scared men do stupid things.”  
  
“You scared him even more because you’re a woman who isn’t intimidated by him,” Shaw added. “Steinkamp’s a bully and bullies usually back down when they’re confronted by bigger bullies, people not afraid of them. In this instance… we’re the bigger bullies.”  
  
Root dug into her back pocket and pulled out a business card with a simple phone number on it. “If he attempts to threaten you again, just call that number.”  
  
“That’s all?"  
  
Shaw gave her a dangerous looking smile. “That’s all.”  
  
“ _You need to leave_ ,” Baby Machine said in their earwigs. “ _The police are doing an apartment by apartment sweep.”_  
  
Both women glanced back at the door then made their way through the kitchen to a service entrance. “We were never here,” Root instructed Amanda. “You’ve been hiding this whole time and have no idea what happened.”  
  
“Yes, yes.”  
  
“Take care, Amanda.”  
  
“How-.”  
  
“Nothing to concern yourself with,” Shaw replied. “Just don't let assholes like Steinkamp intimidate you.”  
  
The blonde gave her a shaky smile. “I won't.”  
  
With a nod, Shaw let Root lead her out the service door to the back staircase.  
  
“Wait,” she grunted in pain as she tried to pull Root to a stop. “The Mossberg.”  
  
“Leave it,” the tall woman replied. “A parting gift for her protection.”  
  
Thinking about it for a moment, Shaw took another pain-filled breath. “Take me home.”  
  
  
_**Shaw’s Loft, Alphabet City**_  
  
  
“Stop moving,” Root admonished Shaw. They were in the bedroom, tending to each others wounds. “Your shirt is stuck to you.”  
  
“Let me look at your shoulder,” Shaw retorted angrily.  
  
“My shoulder is fine. You, on the other hand, have a bullet lodged in your hip and blood all over the place.”  
  
“Root.”  
  
“Sameen.”  
  
“ _Okay, this is getting ridiculous_ ,” the Machine said suddenly. “ _I was going to let you two work this out but you’ve resorted to that saying each other’s name thing. Shaw, my scans indicate you have lost a significantly larger quantity of blood. You’ll be of no use to Root if you don’t let her attend to your wounds first._ ”  
  
It was silent in the bedroom for a long moment as Shaw brooded angrily about having to acquiesce to the other two. “Fine,” she rolled her eyes and snapped. “Just make it quick. So I can take a look at your shoulder.”  
  
“Yes, Sameen,” Root replied with a knowing grin. “Sit still, I’ll be right back.”  
  
While Shaw sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, a hand braced against her knee to hold herself up straighter to ease the pressure, Root hurried into the bathroom and grabbed towels and the medical kit from beneath the sink. Wetting one towel completely, she returned to the bedroom and her injured companion. Sinking onto the bed beside her, Root gently began wetting down the dried blood to make it easier to remove the shirt from Shaw’s body as painlessly as possible.  
  
Suddenly, Shaw hissed in discomfort. The towel had brushed across the torn, ragged skin of the bullet wound, causing a white hot burning sensation and a slow trickle of blood to flow.  
  
“Sorry,” Root murmured. “Almost done.” After letting the water soak the area, she tossed the ruined towel to the corner of the room and reached for the black tank top. “Ready?”  
  
“Just do it,” Shaw growled.  
  
Slowly, Root peeled the wet garment from Shaw’s abdomen. Once it was free of the previously dried blood, she grabbed her tactical knife from her boot and sliced the offending shirt away. “Bullet’s still in there, isn’t it?” Root murmured. While phrased as a question, she knew the answer.  
  
“Yes. There should be a local in the kit. That should be enough for you to get in there with some forceps and get it out. And don’t screw up the stitches.”  
  
“Excuse me?” Root was offended. “I am fantastic at suturing bullet wounds.”  
  
Shaw gave her a dark look. “Last time I caught you trying to suture your name on my shoulder blade, Root.”  
  
Never taking her eyes off Shaw’s wound, Root spoke indignantly as she prepared the local anesthetic. “Yeah, well, it didn’t work, so no harm, no foul.”  
  
Rolling her eyes, Shaw sat back while the other woman injected the area of the wound with the Marcaine then waited a few moments for it to take affect before using the sterile forceps to probe the laceration. It took a only second or two before Root felt the mashed bit of metal and extracted it, dropping it to the floor with a clatter.  
  
Glancing up at Shaw, the taller woman noticed the clenched jaw and pinched grimace the Persian was trying to contain. The gunshot must have been much more painful that Shaw had initially let on. Thinking back to the events in Amanda Wollenbeck’s apartment, Root was shocked that anything could bring Shaw to her knees like that. Then she realized the wound was in damn near the same place where Martine had shot her in the basement of the Stock Exchange. A bullet wound on top of existing scar tissue was a bitch. Root knew that by the amount of times her shoulder had taken fire and the pain she was currently experiencing.  
  
Wiping away the fresh blood her meatball surgery had produced, she put her head back down and stitched up the wound with neat, precise stitches. If nothing else, they would overlay the shoddy work Samaritan’s ham-fisted medics had previously subjected Shaw to. Giving the incision a coating of antibiotic ointment, Root finished by covering it with gauze and taping the bandage to Shaw’s skin.  
  
“There. All done.” Then she smirked at Shaw and practically purred, “Such a good girl, would you like a sucker?” Shaw just stared at her. “Okay, so, that’s a ‘no’ on the innuendo...?”  
  
“Take your shirt off,” Shaw snarled.  
  
“And obviously a ‘no’ to the foreplay, too, huh, Sweetie?”  
  
“Root.”  
  
“Okay, okay.” Working deliberately, Root got the shirt off her good side first then managed to pull it over her head and the bullet wound without having to raise her left arm above her shoulder. The blood she had lost was coating her shoulder, arm and side. “Better?”  
  
“Good enough,” Shaw replied, making quick work of the shallow injury that was mostly a deep furrow in the flesh.  
  
As Shaw stood to get a better look at the top of Root’s shoulder, the other woman found her eyes at waist level to the Persian. She saw, despite having wiped away a good amount of blood before tending to Shaw’s wound, an alarming about of blood still drying on the shorter woman’s side, soaking the waistband of her jeans and down the outside of her thigh. It took every ounce of strength Root possessed at the moment to not reach out and touch the evidence of the extent of Shaw’s injury. She shuddered, thinking this was a little too close for comfort.  
  
Shaw misinterpreted the shiver and glanced down. “Are you cold? In shock?”  
  
“No. No,” Root replied quickly. She felt Shaw taping gauze to her shoulder to cover her own wound. “Sit down, Sameen.”  
  
Shaw dropped immediately to the bed, exhaustion finally allowed to take over as the last of her adrenaline surge wore off. “Your shoulder is starting to look like the topography of a small mountain range.”  
  
Root smirked. “And you said I sucked at suturing.”  
  
“Most of those are on John, not me.”  
  
Smirk gentling to a soft smile, Root leaned forward. Shaw met her halfway, their foreheads resting gently against the other. Root sighed. Shaw’s hand lifted slowly to rest against the taller woman’s cheek. In the silence, Root allowed herself to reach out a hand and brush her fingers over the bandaging before falling to the drying blood on Shaw’s waistband. She released a shuddering sigh, growing weary of the danger they faced and the damage they suffered, despite knowing this was who they were and what they were meant to do.  
  
They sat quietly for a long while.  
  
“Get up,” Root finally whispered. “You need to get out of those ruined clothes and get into bed.”  
  
“Subtle,” Shaw remarked.  
  
“Please. You’re too injured and I’m too tired.”  
  
Shaw snorted. “I’m never too injured,” she retorted, brown eyes locking on amber ones. With a cock of an eyebrow, Root reached out and poked Shaw in the side. “Goddammit fuck, Root!” Shaw yelped, jerking violently away from the touch. “What the fuck was that for?!”  
  
“Proving there’s no way you’re up for any sexy times,” Root replied wryly. She leaned in and pressed her lips to Shaw's. The kiss quickly deepened and Shaw pressed forward, trying to push Root onto her back. Root appeared to give in then pulled away quickly and stood, watching Shaw almost face plant onto the mattress. “Change clothes and get in bed," the taller woman ordered. "We need sleep.”  
  
With a glare and a nod, Shaw went about stripping off her blood-soaked jeans and changing into a fresh tank top and shorts before sliding into what had suddenly become a very inviting bed. Root watched her closely to make sure the shorter woman could manage and because, well… Shaw, then tugged off her own skinny jeans and, after appropriating an old oversized USMC tee from Shaw’s dresser, joined her.  
  
Before Root could even turn off the bedside lamp, Shaw turned onto her good side and tossed her left arm over Root’s waist, her left leg following behind to pin Root to the bed. Root grinned and opened her mouth.  
  
“Don’t talk,” Shaw warned her, burrowing her cheek into the pillow they were both now sharing. “Or I swear I will strangle you. Just… sleep.”  
  
Deciding discretion was the better part of valor at this moment, Root nuzzled her cheek onto the top of Shaw’s head and sighed. She could tell by the Persian’s deep, even breathing that she had already fallen asleep. “Lights, please,” Root whispered to Her. Shortly thereafter, the lamp was clicked off and the security system was set. “Thank you.”  
  
“ _You are welcome_ ,” Baby Machine replied. “ _Rest now. I will keep watch and alert you if you are needed_.”  
  
“Bear,” Root called, knowing the dog was waiting just outside the bedroom door. “Komen.”  
  
With a soft yip, Bear nudged the door open with his snout and trotted in, jumping on the bed and settling himself at Shaw’s feet.  
  
Releasing her own deep breath, Root closed her eyes and fell into an exhausted sleep. Sex, or as close to it as two injured bodies could approximate, would come later.  
  
                                                     ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
“You’ve never complained before,” Shaw muttered, raising her head from Root’s shoulder  
  
Root huffed. “I’ve never been told to stop before.”  
  
“It was pulling at my stitches.”  
  
“And it wasn’t pulling at mine?”  
  
“Yours are all the way up here,” Shaw retorted, poking Root in the shoulder. There was a mild buzz of satisfaction at Root’s squeak of discomfort. “Mine are a little closer to the action.”  
  
“You started it,” Root muttered sulkily.  
  
“And I finished it, too, if I recall correctly.”  
  
“Don’t gloat, Sameen, it isn’t attractive.”  
  
“Jealous?”  
  
Root sat up, dumping Shaw onto her back on the bed. “I don’t get jealous, Sweetie,” she responded, reaching for the USMC t-shirt that she had been relieved of in the early morning hours.  
  
Shaw smirked. “You sure about that?” she asked. “Just the mention of Barcelona still gets you all pissy.” She watched Root’s jaw tense as the woman clenched her teeth and smirked. “Yeah, just like that.”  
  
Crawling across the bed and on her hands and knees, Root stopped when she was leaning over Shaw, forcing the smaller woman onto her back. “We have an appointment with a certain orange reality show host this morning to let him know his friends weren’t very successful with their task yesterday,” she whispered silkily. “I’m going to take a shower.” Dropping a kiss on Shaw’s lips, she got up and strolled into the bathroom, closing the door a fraction. “Care to join me?”  
  
Shaw sat for a moment in the disheveled bed, sheet pooling around her waist, waiting patiently for what she knew was coming. The sound of the shower being turned on carried out the bathroom door, followed by a billow of steamy air. Then she heard it. Root. Singing. In the shower.  
  
It sounded like Adele- well, it sounded like an Adele _song_. It actually sounded nothing like Adele. It might have been _Hello_ , but it also could have been _Rolling in the Deep_. And it could have been AC/DC for all Shaw knew. She sat in bed for another moment then rolled her eyes and got up.  
  
“What the hell are you singing?” she grumbled as she entered the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind her.  
  
  
_**Steinkamp Tower, Central Park East, 95th Floor**_  
  
  
“I don’t care who he thinks he is!” a blustery voice shouted as the office door opened. “Get him on the fucking phone! Tell him William Steinkamp is calling, goddammit!” The borderline obese, orange skinned man stormed into his office and slammed the door shut behind him. “Fucking incompetent bitch.”  
  
Root, who was sitting behind the huge ornate desk with her feet on its highly polished surface and her hands clasped behind her head, tsked at the man. “Such language,” she admonished. Beside the desk, Bear growled in assent.  
  
“Who the fuck-!” he bellowed.  
  
Before he could finish his thought, the cold metal barrel of a semi-automatic pistol pressed to the back of his neck, startling him into silence. He immediately broke out in a cold sweat.  
  
“Shut up,” Shaw snarled from behind him. She gave him a shove with the gun. “Sit your ass down.”  
  
Pushing him into a seat before the huge desk, Shaw zip-tied his wrists to the chair arms then stepped back behind him, gun pressing to the back of his head once again. Bear padded forward and stood watchfully right in front of the man, ears perked up and alert. Steinkamp had paled considerably beneath his unnatural orange hue and his hands were suddenly shaking. He had never been accosted in his own office, let alone by two women and some mutt. He was William Steinkamp, goddammit!  
  
“ _Please be careful_ ,” the Machine said in their earwigs. “ _He has dangerously high blood pressure and I sense a weakened blood vessel in his brain. He’s at high risk for a stroke or aneurysm_.”  
  
“Not a bad thing,” Shaw muttered under her breath. Bear, sensing her wrath, growled at the orange man.  
  
“Now, Sweetie,” Root responded gently. “We don’t really want him dropping dead do we?”  
  
“You don’t want my answer to that.”  
  
“Who are you?” Steinkamp blurted, finding his voice again. “How the fuck did you get in here?”  
  
Root smiled that enigmatic smile of hers as she dropped her feet to the floor and leaned forward, resting her elbows on Steinkamp’s prized desk. “Who we are doesn’t matter,” she told him. “How we got in here? Well, it was surprisingly easy getting through your rather porous security and completely antiquated and amateurish surveillance system.” She gave him a condescending Root-pout. “You really should consider firing your entire security force.”  
  
“My private security guards will be here in five minutes once I don’t respond to that call my secretary just made,” Steinkamp said, false bravado coloring his voice. “And they’ll take care of you bitches.”  
  
“Well,” Root replied, pulling the keyboard to the computer in front of her and typing in several commands. “First of all, since the call was cancelled just now? No they won’t. And second…” She held a hand out to Shaw, offering her the floor.  
  
Shaw leaned forward and put her lips near Steinkamp’s ear. “We only need four,” she finished in a low, dangerous tone. She felt a hum of satisfaction in her gut when she saw the man swallow hard, sweat rolling down the side of his fat face. “Who’s the bitch now?”  
  
If Steinkamp could get any paler than he currently was, Root would be surprised. She could see the cold sweat on his forehead and the whiteness around his eyes stood out more starkly than normal. The collar of his silk dress shirt was turning a darker shade of blue as it soaked in the perspiration rolling down his face and neck. At Baby Machine’s tone in her earwig that his biorhythms were at the proper levels for their intentions, she spoke.  
  
“Amanda Wallenbeck,” she began. “She’s still alive.”  
  
Steinkamp swallowed again. “I have no idea-.”  
  
Shaw poked him hard in the head with the barrel of her gun. “Shut up,” she snarled. “You’re not speaking, you’re listening. Got it?” He nodded weakly.  
  
Root continued calmly. “Your three friends were not very good at their jobs. You should ask for your 30 thousand back.” She grinned when his mouth fell open at the mention of the payment he had made to the men. “But what they are good at,” she gloated, getting up and walking around the desk, “is spilling their guts to the cops. You have about three hours before New York’s finest show up to arrest you for felony witness intimidation, conspiracy to commit murder and racketeering.” Giving Bear a gentle scratch between his ears, Root then leaned back against the desk with her arms crossed over her chest, she glanced up at Shaw with a grin. “I threw that last one in for free.”  
  
Shaw smirked. Then she poked him again, the sound of solid metal clunking against skull satisfying to her in the quiet office. “Now you can speak.”  
  
“You won’t get away with this,” Steinkamp blustered. “Do you know who I am? I’m-.”  
  
“William Steinkamp,” both women repeated in unison with him. Root rolled her eyes and smirked at Shaw, who just rolled her eyes.  
  
“You keep saying that like it means something,” Shaw murmured in his ear. “Trust me when I tell you there are a lot of very scary things out there.” She paused for a long, deadly moment. “We actually destroyed the biggest one. You really don’t even make the list.”  
  
“What do you want from me?” he whined. “I’ll give you anything. Just… Please don’t hurt me.”  
  
“I’m not going to hurt you. I just want you to stop assaulting women,” the Persian replied with another skull-rattling poke. “I want you to stop intimidating them and hiring goons to beat them to a pulp. I want you to be as humiliated by what happens to you as those women are by your humiliation of them.” She pulled back the slide of the Sig Sauer in her hand, the clicking sound of the hammer echoing in the quiet of his office, and gave Steinkamp one more hard poke with the barrel, causing him to start to whimper. “I want you to be as afraid and fearful and downright terrified as you have made them feel.”  
  
“And if you don’t?” Root added in her sing song tone. “We’ll come back for another visit. And it won’t be nearly as sociable as this one was. Because my friend here? She has anger issues. And she doesn’t feel anything. So when she breaks all your fingers and then your legs and finally puts a bullet in the back of your head, she won’t care. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”  
  
“N-no, no,” the man sobbed. Bear growled deeply and moved forward, on guard and menacingly. “Oh, G-god, no.”  
  
Suddenly, both Root and Shaw took a step back and observed Steinkamp sitting in the chair, Root’s head tilting to the side in wonder. At his crotch, to be exact, in which a rapidly spreading wet spot had appeared. Bear yelped and backed up a few paces in canine confusion.  
  
Shaw smirked. “Where’s that tough guy now?” she asked, eyeing the billionaire.  
  
“The best part,” Root remarked, tossing the Persian a humorously bad wink, “is a couple of women made him do that.” Then she glanced down. “And a good dog. Who’s a good dog?” Bear glanced up at her and gave a little yip. “Yes, you are.”  
  
“Let’s get out of here,” Shaw muttered as they watched the man blubbering in the chair, the wetness where he’s lost control of his bladder dripping onto the expensive Oriental rug. “I have grease on the muzzle of my gun from his skanky ass hair. I need to clean it.”  
  
“I’m afraid Bear might step in something he shouldn’t,” Root agreed. “Bear, Komen.”  
  
“ _I suggest you exit the same way you entered the office,_ ” Baby Machine said in their earwigs. “ _One thing he was right about was his security detail arriving quickly. You have 45 seconds to vacate_.”  
  
“Thanks for the warning, Hal,”  
  
The Machine gave a huff of indignation. “ _You seemed to be having fun and I didn’t want to interrupt you_.”  
  
Shaw shrugged. “Yeah, I was having fun,” she admitted. She whistled at Bear and gave Root a push towards the secondary office door and they slipped out of the executive suites. “Dude should see a urologist, though. Looks like he’s got a weak bladder…”  
  
By the time they hit the pavement of 5th Avenue, Shaw’s phone was buzzing in her pocket. She pulled it out and glanced at the screen, then showed it to Root, who was clipping Bear’s leash to his collar. Hitting the green button, Shaw put the phone to her ear.  
  
“Hey, Lionel,” she said by way of greeting.  
  
“Hey, yourself,” the detective replied gruffly from the other end of the line. “You just pay a visit to William Steinkamp?”  
  
“How’d you know about that?”  
  
Fusco grumped. “Your handiwork in the hallway of Amanda Wallenbeck’s apartment building told me so. I figured your next move was to deliver a message to the ol’ gas-bag himself.”  
  
“Yeah, we dropped in on him. I think he got the message we delivered. Big Orange peed himself like a two-year old.”  
  
There was a chuckle on the other end then a moment of silence. “Hey, Shaw,” Fusco murmured seriously. “You and Lucy okay? Looked like there were a lot of bullets flying in that hallway.”  
  
“Yeah, we’re okay. Winged a little, but we’re still kicking.”  
  
“Good. Because there was a lot of blood on the floor outside Wallenbeck’s apartment. More than getting a little winged.”  
  
Root leaned closer to Shaw and spoke into the phone. “Your concern is touching, Detective. It’s nice to know you do care.”  
  
“I don’t care,” Fusco blurted. “I’m trying to avoid more paperwork. You two are worse than Wonder Boy, you know that?”  
  
Shaw smirked. “I think we’ve been told that a time or two. We’re fine, Lionel. See you Sunday for the game?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be there.”  
  
“Dinner’s on you this time. Bring Chinese. And not that new age-y crap from some fusion restaurant. I want something from near the Subway. And a lot of it.”  
  
“Yeah, like I go to new age-y fusion restaurants. You ever see the prices at those places? Tasty Noodles?”  
  
“Yeah. And don’t forget the dumplings this time.”  
  
“Anything else, your highness?”  
  
“Yeah.” Shaw paused. “Be safe, Lionel.”  
  
Fusco chuckled. “You, too, Angry. And keep a leash on your crazy girlfriend, too.”  
  
Shaw scowled. “She’s not my girlfr-.”  
  
“Good bye, Lionel,” Root cut in, taking the phone from Shaw and hitting the End Call button.  
  
Fighting to snatch her phone back, Shaw grabbed Root’s wrist and squeezed. “Give me that, I wasn’t done with him.”  
  
Root put the phone in her other hand and held it up over her head. “Sweetie, if you keep telling him I’m not your girlfriend, he’s just going to keep calling me that.” They stopped walking and she held out the iPhone to Shaw. “He knows how it gets to you.”  
  
Grabbing the phone out of Root’s hand, Shaw began walking again. “He sounds like he’s 12 years old with that shit,” she complained.  
  
“ _Detective Fusco enjoys teasing you_ ,” Baby Machine said in their earwigs. “ _As Root said, he knows it gets under your skin. There is a 100% chance he will continue calling her your girlfriend if you continue to complain about it_.”  
  
“I bet that was tough to calculate,” Shaw grumbled. “And it’s such a juvenile word.”  
  
“What would you rather he call me?” Root asked, curious to see how the other woman would respond.  
  
“There’ve got to be better descriptions than ‘girlfriend’. I’m pretty sure we’ve outgrown grade school.”  
  
Root grinned to herself at what Shaw was basically admitting. “We can get the thesaurus out later and you can pick out a better word. Okay, Sameen?”  
  
“Whatever. And what was that with you holding my phone up over your head? Are you insinuating that I’m short?”  
  
Root grinned. “I’m not sure I have to insinuate that, Sweetie.”  
  
Shaw glowered at the other woman. “You’re not funny. You know that, right?”  
  
“On the contrary,” Root retorted. “I’m very funny. Aren’t I, Bear?”  
  
Bear, the hairy traitor, barked in agreement. Shaw growled at them both and walked briskly ahead. “He’s only agreeing with you because you feed him,” she groused over her shoulder.  
  
“I feed you, too, and yet…”  
  
  
**_Café de la Paix, Piazza del Duomo, Firenze, Italy_**  
  
  
The shadow fell over him as he read his book, _City of Fortune: How Venice Ruled the Seas,_  and passed time while his wife completed her painting of the Florence Cathedral, causing a prickle of apprehension to race down his spine. Shaking off the feeling, he glanced up. To say he was startled would be an understatement.  
  
“What up, Finch,” Shaw said, dropping into the chair across the table from him. Her relaxed posture belied the steel in her words as she reached out and took a cookie from the plate in front of one Harold Finch, spike-haired, bespectacled, recluse billionaire and creator of the Machine, leader of their ragtag team, deserter of friends.  
  
“Ms. Shaw,” he blurted, eyes wide, round and bugged out in shock. “What are you doing here?”  
  
Shaw smiled humorlessly. “Nice to see you, too, Harry,” she replied, purposely using Root’s nickname for the man. She bit into the cookie and chewed, all the while giving Finch an angry stare. “Fusco and I are fine, by the way.”  
  
Finch sat back in his chair, his neck still stiff and restrictive, making his movements still appear rigid and jerky. “I know, Ms. Shaw,” he said softly. “When everything… ended… I checked to make sure you had both survived.”  
  
“And then you bolted to your happy ending while Lionel and I were left to clean up the mess.” She shook her head. “Not cool, Harold. Not cool.”  
  
“I had had enough,” Finch murmured in reply, trying to explain his actions following the Fall. “I lost too many friends, put others in tremendous danger. It wasn’t worth it anymore. And with the Machine gone I thought it best to leave.”  
  
“Yeah, good for you, but just an FYI, She’s back. Downloaded Herself from the satellite into the system in the Subway a couple of weeks later.”  
  
“What?!” Finch exclaimed, leaning forward. “It’s… She’s alive?”  
  
“As alive as a bucket of bolts using Root’s voice as some kind of stupid tribute can be.” Shaw polished off the cookie and wiped excess crumbs from her hands. “She’s alive, too,” she said, inclining her head to a spot over Finch’s shoulder.  
  
Harold Finch sat bolt upright at Shaw’s words, his eyes bulging wide open, flabbergasted, as a familiar voice floated to his ears.  
  
“Hello, Harry,” Root greeted from her spot just over Finch’s left shoulder. “Miss me?”  
  
Turning stiffly, Finch was stunned to his core as a strangled gasp escaped his lips. “M- Ms. Groves?” he blurted after a moment. “Root? Oh, my God! But- but how? I- I saw you die.” His voice was choked, thinking how this was the third friend he'd seen gunned down. How not much later, he'd be forced to say good bye to yet another with John’s sacrifice. “I had to watch you die…”  
  
Shaw motioned for a waiter as she reached for another cookie, still chewing the jammie dodger she had stuffed in her mouth. “Well, at least he didn’t fall over his chair like Fusco did.”  
  
While Shaw gave the waiter their order, Root slipped into the chair beside her, crossing her legs casually as she faced the man she had always believed in and admired. The man who had built her god and given her a purpose, redeeming her in the process. The man who walked away so easily and had abandoned them without so much as a single thought. Her trademark smile never reached her eyes.  
  
“Well, it was touch and go for a while,” the slender woman replied, “but Madelaine is very good at what she does.”  
  
“Madelai- Dr. Enright?”  
  
One corner of Root’s lips kicked up in a little smile. “When you set Her free, She had the power to do what She felt needed to be done. She knew there was a chance, no matter how slight, I could survive a high powered rifle shot, so She put everything into motion. Madelaine was called in and saved my life then put me into a medically induced coma. You and your remaining little soldiers took on Samaritan without me and won.” She was still a little bitter about not being able to fight alongside her friends, of not being there when John sacrificed himself for the rest of them. “One thing She was able to do, and has continued to do, is recruit teams across the country. Virtually every number saved has become an asset to Her in some form. Did you know that?”  
  
“I had no idea. But how?”  
  
“Apparently She was a busy little beaver,” Shaw deadpanned as she stirred her Italian coffee. “All I know is She was there when we needed Her.”  
  
Finch’s gaze lowered to where his hand rested on the linen-covered table top, his fingers pressed to the intricate pattern in the cloth. “I am sorry, Ms. Shaw,” he murmured in reply.  
  
“It’s been a year, Finch,” Shaw growled angrily. “John’s in Arlington and got the hero’s burial he deserved. She made sure of that.”  
  
“He deserved a better end,” Finch murmured bitterly.  
  
“He died saving the world, Harold,” Root replied. “It was more than he had hoped for. It was honorable and brave. And he was a good, good man.”  
  
“Yes. Yes, he was.”  
  
“Fusco’s fine, too,” Shaw muttered. “He and Lee are doing well. So’s Zoe.”  
  
Root sipped her cappuccino before speaking. “She took John's disappearance pretty hard, but she expected nothing less from the Big Lug." Then she paused. “The numbers are coming again.”  
  
Harold looked startled at the news. “Are you working them?”  
  
Shaw shrugged a shoulder. “Someone has to.”  
  
“I do hope you’ll be careful,” he said, leaning forward in his chair.  
  
“We always are, Harry,” Root responded sweetly, to which Shaw snorted. “Well, as careful as an angry sociopath and a perky psycho can be,” she amended with a lopsided little smile while, beside her, Shaw chuckled into her coffee. Root set her cup down. “We’re not here to ask you to come back, Harold. Your life is here now. With Grace. Like our lives are in New York with Her and the numbers.”  
  
“But we are using the money,” Shaw informed him. “We need it to keep working.”  
  
Harold nodded. “I understand. It’s in a trust-.”  
  
“Oh, She already found it,” Root interrupted as Shaw threw some Euro’s on the table to cover their tab. “Really, Harry, it was incredibly easy to locate and access the account.” Tossing her hair over her shoulder, Root gave him a poor approximation of a wink. “It was almost like you wanted someone to find it. We’ve been using it to take care of certain things. Such as Genrika Zhirova’s education, for one.” She and Shaw got to their feet and the tall woman smiled sincerely at Finch. “Be well, Harry.”  
  
“I’m glad you both survived,” he called as they started to leave. “Please, take care of yourselves. And each other.”  
  
“You, too, Finch,” Shaw replied. “Have a nice life.”  
  
With that, she walked away. Root gave Harold one last gentle smile and a mouthed “thank you” before following after Sameen.  
  
Harold Finch watched them go, knowing it was quite possible that he would never see them again. He was happy they had both survived and had found each other again, along with his creation, knowing how much they needed each other to survive. But he also knew he could never return to that life. Too much had been lost, both lives and time. While he would never change what that time had meant to him, what good they had done, what they had overcome, it was part of his past. He would hold the two women, Detective Fusco, John and Carter, even Carl Elias, close in his heart, but he would never return to that life again.  
  
It was a bittersweet moment, knowing the door to a time that had been both glorious and heartbreaking was finally closed forever.

"Bittersweet, indeed," he murmured to himself, gaze focused forward as the women slowly disappeared behind him.  
  
                                                                 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
“Venice first, then home,” Root said suddenly as they walked away from Finch. “That sounds like fun, doesn’t it?”  
  
Shaw stared at Root for a long moment, dark eyes locked on amber ones. To be honest, a side trip to the island city could be fun. The food in Italy was rather spectacular, the history and the sights were interesting. And Root was actually a pretty good traveling companion, especially considering she insisted they christen every flat surface in their various hotel rooms. Repeatedly.  
  
“Fine,” Sameen said finally. “But I’m not getting in a gondola.”  
  
Smiling indulgently, Root took Shaw’s hand in hers. “That’s okay, Sweetie,” she replied with a smirk, “a gondola is the last thing I’m hoping you’ll be getting in to.”  
  
Shaw just groaned as they walked back to the car for a quick trip to the airport and a short flight to Veneto.  
  
But she never let go of Root’s hand.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: In keeping with the movie quotes theme the Machine seems to love, there IS a quote from a 1984 comedy (that was recently remade) in this story. Bonus points for anyone who can find it.
> 
> A/N2: Funny thing, I was watching a DVR’d episode of Pitch and Sarah Shahi was a guest star and in a bit of irony, it was titled Unstoppable Forces & Immovable Objects. 
> 
> A/N3: I'm not really happy with the final scenes, but I really wanted to write something with Finch and address what appeared to be a callous departure from New York and the people who fought with, and for, him. I hope it turned out okay.


End file.
